


twin serpents

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Series: set adrift [4]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, Lore - Freeform, One-Shot, Other, Revelations, gender neutral reader, non-linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 01:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: Everything about him seems to revolve around a singular idea: He wasn’t always the Drifter.or,Pre-Joker's Wild what if Dredgen Yor and Drifter were the same person





	twin serpents

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: ouroboros  
> \---  
> just an idea that i've been mulling over and over ever since i met the drifter

There are whispers of the man before the Drifter. He himself sees it in the everyday: the sunset on the distant horizon as he slips into the hangar and watches the shadows grow long on the walls; the Darkness embroiling within invading Guardians, fearless and assured; and the physical remains on his immortal body.

During a late afternoon on _The Derelict_ , his head in your lap, your gentle touch finds the bumpy gunshot wound hidden in his dark hairline. Before you can inquire its origins, he takes your hand and presses it to his chest instead. Warm, carved jade kisses your palm. Curiosity burns in you as bright as any radiant flame; he reads it in your body, your expression, the careful tip of your tongue caught between your teeth. He’s never shy to brag about his scars.

So the Drifter takes a deep breath and admits, “It happened a long time ago. Face-off with another Lightbearer. He struck first.”

“Guardians fighting against each other?”

“No such thing as Guardians in those days,” he reminds. “We were Risen.”

“Who won the fight?”

“Jury’s still out. But it takes more than a bullet to put me down.”

He drowses in the cool and calm quiet, never allowing the nightmares to sink their claws into him, while you read whatever has captured your attention in the recent days. Memoirs, ancient texts, and archived lore. You make mention of dated events which have transcended into myth-- _Ishtar Idols or the Opulent Forest in the Dreaming City_ \--and he drowsily mumbles assent, _Yes, of course they’re real; I was there._

“Dredgen,” you say.

He snaps awake. “Hmm? What?”

You drum thoughtfully against his broad chest. “Dredgen Yor. I wish we knew more about him,” you murmur, “and how he became the most hated Guardian of all time. What was the catalyst? Why don’t we know more about him?”

“Sometimes the past doesn’t have answers,” he replies carefully. “I’ve always been a drifter. Ain’t no before and after.”

He feels your fingers pause as you mull over his answer. Though your eyes don’t drag away from the illuminated datapad, he sees the corners of your lips pull into a knowing smile. “Liar,” you accuse lightly. Either you read him too well or he’s just bad at keeping secrets from you. But you don’t push the subject and you resume toying with his jade pendant, memorizing each etch and curve of the twin serpents.

Everything about him seems to revolve around a singular idea: He wasn’t always the Drifter.

His many secrets twists incoherently in the span of past and present. It would take another lifetime just to make sense of where he’s been and what he’s done. But you loosen the knots and seize brief moments in his stories: the Bar, the Iron Wolves and Lords, the Monolith. The questions build and build before they slip out, mumbled against his scarred, disfigured shoulder in the early mornings, _Who were you?_

Some part of him answers, _You don’t wanna know._

Another says, _It doesn’t matter anymore._

Maybe the Traveler believed the truth shouldn’t remain hidden forever. Perhaps the hints and clues were there the whole time, and it just took one good night’s sleep to piece the mystery together. Whatever it might be, you dream of hazy figures facing each other, one born of Light and the other, Darkness. One wields a beautiful, aged weapon known for others’ swan songs. The other keeps the jagged, corrupted Thorn holstered at his side. You know this story by heart yet it’s wrong in familiar aspects.

You watch the Last Word fire its first, single bullet engulfed in brilliant, golden flames.

It strikes Yor in his chest.

He falls.

Another bullet in his head. Malphur walks away as a young man freed from vengeance. This is where the legend ends

In your dreams, the Gunslinger’s radiance shines the brightest in the dark, and so from death comes life anew. In your dreams, Dredgen Yor comes back to life, quietly and fireborn. Risen once more however without a Ghost, he finds himself the same and different. No longer bound by Darkness, but still hungry for its power. He sits up. Removes his helm. And watches the sun set once more on his silhouette, changing history in a moment and yet not at all.

You wake up, gasping as tears streaks down your cheeks, and the Drifter stirs. “You okay?” His words slur sleepily. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter? Bad dream?”

You struggle out of bed, hastily dressing, and summoning the Ghost to prepare your ship. “I have to go. I have to talk to the Vanguard.”

“What for?”

“Dredgen Yor,” you say, the name tasting strange on your lips despite its notoriety, “He didn’t die. He’s alive. He’s _alive_.”

“What?”

“Ikora and Zavala need to know. I don’t know how I’ll convince them but--”

As you pivot around to leave, the Drifter’s hand closes around your wrist. His breathing comes quick, his brow furrowed and worried. “He’s dead, Guardian,” he says. In shock, you see him paler than usual; the purple shadows under his bright eyes are stark and vivid. His jade pendant beats slowly against his chest; its momentum is near rhythmic. And he’s _trembling_. “He’s dead. Just let him rest.”

“I told you, Dredgen Yor _isn’t_ dead--”

His grip tightens like a vise. His skin feels like it’s on fire. “Guardian,” he struggles to say, “I-- I’m--”

_Who were you?_

And now, the answer is so obvious.

“Dredgen,” you whisper, “You’re Dredgen Yor.”

His eyes flutter shut and his lips twist in a grimace. And then, he forces himself to grin and laugh, however pained or haunted. “Not anymore,” he says.


End file.
